'"Wha. . . ? " Gin opened her eyes. Dark. And noisy. A bell ringing. Loud. Almost in her ear.

The phone.

She picked it up and heard a familiar voice.

"Gin? It's Gerry. Sorry to call you at this hour but I'm in a jam.

" What hour is it?

She glanced at the clock, 2, 33.

"Something wrong? " she said. The urgency in Gerry's voice dispersed the fog of sleep.

'"We've had a break in a kidnapping case and I've got to go out. " "What kidnapping? " '"I can't say. We've kept it out of the papers.

But the thing is, Mrs. Snedecker can't come over and I struck out with my backups. I was wondering, hoping . . . " "I'll be right over. " He gave her directions to his apartment complex in Arlington. She smiled ruefully at the irony. Just four hours ago she had been only a couple of miles from him.

Gin found Gerry standing outside the front door of his duplex, keys in hand. Apparently he'd shaved, put on fresh clothes, and was alert and ready to go. Even at this unholy hour he looked good.

Better than I do, she thought. She knew she looked rumpled, she felt rumpled in her flannel shirt, jeans, and raincoat, but she'd got here as quickly as she could.

"You made great time" He kissed her, a friendly peck on the cheek.

His voice was a machine gun. "I can't tell you how much this means to me.

I'd never have imposed if I'd had any other place to turn."

"Don't be silly. I, " "Martha's upstairs. She's a sound sleeper. You can just sack out yourself. I'll be back as soon as I can get free, but I don't know exactly when that'll be."

"Take your time, " Gin said. "I'll stay as long as you need me. I don't have surgery today." He kissed her again, on the lips this time

"You're the greatest. See you soon.

" And then he was sprinting for the parking lot. When he reached his car he turned and called to her.

"Oh, by the way. I left something for you on the kitchen table." Gin watched him drive off, then went inside and locked the door behind her.

Shucking her raincoat, she wandered through the living room of the duplex and into the adjoining dining room, wall-to-wall carpet in the former, an area rug in the latter. Danish modern furniture. Neat, clean, functional. Not much personality. No lingering telltale odors to identify the cook's favorite food. Hard to tell if anyone really lived here until she got to the kitchen. A miniature art gallery there.

Everywhere she looked, on the walls, on the cork bulletin board, on the refrigerator, the room was festooned with a child's drawings. A riot of colors. Martha, it seemed, believed in using every crayon in her box, and it had to be quite a box. Nor was she exactly traditional in her color designations. In one drawing green people might stand on yellow lawns next to pink trees under orange skies, in the next drawing the color scheme would be completely different.

A munchkin van Gogh. With a father who obviously adored every squiggle she put to paper.

She looked in the fridge. Lots of prepackaged meals in the freezer.

Just what she'd expect with a single father on the go.

Then she remembered what Gerry had said about leaving something for her on the kitchen table. She turned and saw nothing on the table . . .

except a sheet of paper. She recognized it before she picked it up. A death certificate.

Lisa Lathram was typed on the name line. Gin noted that the certifier was Stanley Metelski, MD, Fairfax County coroner at the time of the accident. Which meant Lisa's death had been a coroner's case. Of course it would be. Any eighteen-year-old dying suddenly is an automatic coroner's case.

She scanned down to the cause-of-death section.

Immediate cause of death, Intracerebral hemorrhage.

Due to or as a consequence of, Left parietal skull fracture.

due to or as a consequence of, Intentional drug overdose.

Gin nearly dropped the sheet. A suicide?

Suddenly shaky, she lowered herself into a chair and leaned on the table.

Oh, God. Poor Duncan. No wonder no one wanted to talk about it. He must have pulled some heavy strings and called in a lot of favors to keep that last line from getting out to the public.

Was that why he ended his marriage, closed up his practice, stopped being a Virginia vascular specialist and became a Maryland cosmetic surgeon?

Or was there more?

The drug overdose . . . why? The fall . . . obviously the coroner thought it was a result of the overdose. Was it?

Gin had thought the death certificate would answer some questions, but it only raised more.

Rising, she dropped it back onto the kitchen table and wandered toward the front of the duplex. She pushed Lisa Lathram to the back of her mind and brought Martha Canney front and center. Gin had a sudden urge to look in on her.

She crept upstairs. Two bedrooms and a bath there. She peeked in the first. In The dim light seeping up from the first floor she could see Martha's little head framed by her pillow and the covers. Lots of Disney characters on the walls and shelves. Gin stepped closer and snugged the covers a little more tightly around her shoulders. As she turned away she spotted a framed photo standing on Martha's dresser.

She picked it up and angled it toward the light.

A pretty young blond. Although they'd moved in entirely different circles during their high school years, Gin recognized Karen Shannick.

The late Mrs. Gerald Canney. Martha's mother.

God, she'd been beautiful. Classic, clean, all-American girl looks.

She married an all-American guy. And they'd had a child. A Happy Days life until . . .

She thought of Harriet Thompson, also gone, but who'd had seventy-eight years. Poor Karen had had maybe a third of that. And what a shame she couldn't see the doll she'd brought into the world.

Life telly sucked sometimes.

Gin stared down at Martha for a moment and was struck by the realization that this was Gerry's child. His alone. This little person was totally dependent on him, and he was completely responsible for her.

She wondered how that would feel.

Scary, she thought. Very scary.

She replaced the photo on the dresser but the leg that angled out of the back of the frame collapsed and it fell flat on the dresser top.

Gin winced. Not a loud noise, but it sounded like a gunshot in the little bedroom.

"Daddy? " Oh, no.

Quickly Gin turned and knelt beside the bed. Martha was sitting up, rubbing her eyes, not quite awake yet. She looked at Gin.

"Where's my daddy? " "He had to go out, " Gin whispered. "He asked me to stay with you.

Remember me? Gin? From Taco Bell? " "You're the doctor."

"Right.

What a great memory you have." . "Where's Mrs. Snedecker? " "She's away. That's why I'm here." Am I doing this right? she wondered. If Martha were sick Gin would know exactly what to do, but she'd never had any younger sibs, so she wasn't too sure of herself here. Getting her back to sleep seemed like the best thing. She straightened the covers.

"Here. Why don't you just lie back down and close your eyes. I'll be right downstairs. If you need anything, you just call and I'll be right here. Okay? " Martha didn't say anything as she lay back and pulled the covers up.

Gin adjusted them around her and then, on impulse, leaned over and kissed her cheek.

"Good night, Martha." As she rose and turned toward the door, she heard a sob from the bed. She knelt back down again.

"What's wrong, Martha? " "I get scuh-scared when my daddy's not here at nuh-nuhnight." She started to cry.

"He'll be home soon, Martha, " she said, searching for a way to comfort her. "What if I stay here with you? " Martha sniffled and sat up.

"Can you? " "Sure. It'll be fun."

"Will you get under the covers?